Misericordia
by Exiiona
Summary: "When Sanderson fought, he fought hard, and he fought long, and he didn't stop until his partner was panting and bruised and he was smiling through a bloodied set of teeth." M for violence.


Disclaimer: CoD is not mine, obviously.

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**Misericordia**: n. _mercy, compassion, humanity_

The primary reason that Ghost so enjoyed fighting with Roach was the fact that Roach didn't hold back, ever, under any circumstances. Not that everyone else did, but Simon had no trouble picking up on moments of hesitation or a slight flinch or twinge of regret before a punch was thrown, in most cases due to the fact that his opponents weren't sure if there would be any long-lasting repercussions for attempting to beat the shit out of their lieutenant. Ghost found this insulting- He wasn't the type to hold his rank over anyone's head during a good, fair fight, and the thought that he would do so was even a bit repulsive.

So there was Sanderson, and whether he actually knew better than to hold back or just didn't give a shit, no one knew. But when he fought, he fought hard, and he fought long, and he didn't stop until his partner was panting and bruised and he was smiling through a bloodied set of teeth.

They liked to stage their fights after nightfall, after the heat had relented just enough for it to take them a while to work up a sweat, and they liked to fight in plain sight, where any other occupants of the same area would not be spared the brutal sounds of a packed punch connecting with the soft flesh of a cheek. And of course, they always tried to be far away from MacTavish's sight.

One night in particular, a night in mid-december a little after midnight, where the only feeling that was retained in their cold-numbed fingers was the tingle of anticipation as they waited for the next strike, they had worked up a crowd and fought for around two hours. It was always more thrilling to fight in the cold, when the only parts of you that weren't numb were all the parts that were yellowing into fresh bruises or being warmed by a stream of hot blood. Gary enjoyed this factor just as much as Simon, and welcomed every uppercut and every jab that was thrown with a wild grin and exhilarated eyes. Ghost found himself mirroring that stupid, crooked grin despite his split lip, and ended up paying for it with a knee to the ribs. He swore he felt something crack, but he was still standing and he wasn't bleeding yet, at least not there, and shrugged it off.

Sanderson hit hard but Riley was crafty and swift. He dodged almost every other succeeding strike, side-stepping and ducking and sliding out of the way, and delivered a brutally packed hook to the side of Roach's head, pulling himself out of a crouch and bringing his fist out in a wide arc with enough momentum and force that he was sure he could've dislocated his partner's jaw.

But Gary was quick to assure him that this wasn't the case, steadying himself after being knocked sideways, and smiled even bigger, with blood seeping from between his teeth. There was no doubt that that crazy fucking grin of his scared half the crowd, even with all of their training and jaded-to-violence attitudes, and Simon grinned at the thought. He followed up with another equally forceful punch to the other side of Gary's face. Someone in the crowd shouted "Fucking Christ, you're going to kill the kid!" and there was a small hum of agreement, but with Simon's ears ringing and his surroundings pushed to the background of his mind, it was nothing but a uniform buzz of noise.

And Roach didn't stop smiling, and he didn't stop taking the punches, and after two more devastating blows from Ghost, he was on the ground and his cheeks were red and purple and yellow and he was sporting a shiner that made Ghost, and himself, proud. Simon wasn't about to let up, though, not now, he was still waiting on Sanderson to make a comeback, and he knew he would and the only question was "when?" He practically pounced- lithe, toned body holding leverage over the sergeant's and muscled hips pinning him helplessly to the ground. He drove his fist into his gut.

Someone from the crowd stepped forward, as if they were about to pull him off, but after Ghost shot them a feral glare, they stumbled back into their place and didn't dare interrupt again.

Meanwhile, Gary looked delirious- He stared up at Simon with a wild, detached gaze, laughing through a rasp of semi-congealed blood. His consciousness was becoming questionable.

"You control everything that happens," Ghost started in a low hiss. "Pain, or the relief of pain. The sentence of death, or reprieve. All depend on your choices."

Though they may not have made perfect sense to any of the bystanders, those words were recognised by Roach as the same words Ghost used during an interrogation and as he said them, his face was close enough to Roach's that they could both smell the alcohol and taste the stale cigarette smoke and twinge of mint that was characteristically Simon. Roach seemed encouraged, appreciated, and smirked- Those words also signified that Ghost needed this sort of adrenaline fueled relief just as much as he did, all for the sake of wearing a mask of sanity and clarity. They each needed to hurt and bleed and inflict pain and make others bleed, both for different reasons that could be watered down into the same breach of sanity that so affected them both and thus could be cured by the same reckless infliction of violence and the crunch and grind of bones, teeth, and overworked muscle.

Roach had still made no attempt at his anticipated comeback and Ghost drove another jab into his gut as if to speed up the process. "Say mercy, bug," he purred below his ear.

And in a flash, Ghost was thrown off. He was the one on the ground and he couldn't see anything but Roach and he couldn't feel anything but the distinct connection of knuckles in sensitised skin yearning for a bruise to flaunt. Roach hovered over him, looking wildly satisfied as he reeled his fist back and landed it against Ghost's jaw. Then his gut. His hip. Chest. Ribs. Nose. Jaw. Gut. Hip, chest, ribs, nose, repeat.

Ghost couldn't feel the cold and he couldn't see the crowd begin to disperse. He couldn't feel the pain or hear anything save for his own rasped howl of laughter. When Roach reeled back for the third jab to his nose, he jerked his head out of the way, brought his knee against his side, and knocked him off sideways. It was his way of signifying that this was the end of it for now.

They both lay there, in the cold, late-night atmosphere, bleeding and laughing until the pain in their sides from their enjoyment stopped outweighing the pain in the rest of their bodies, and Ghost groaned and was the first to push himself up, hobbling a few unsteady steps. He offered Roach his hand, but Roach simply stared at it, dazed and still sporting that damn grin of his through blood-stained teeth and puffy split lips, but differently. It wasn't the sick, crazy grin that scared the daylights out of the crowd. It was admiration and a twist of confusion, as if contemplating something that surpassed his understanding, and he couldn't be bothered to move.

Roach stared up at him and drank in every detail of his moon-lit face that was handsome under normal circumstances but somehow breathtaking with blood caked beneath his eye, under his nose, over his lips, smeared across his cheek, and in his hair. The hand offered to him was uncharacteristically still.

After the seconds progressed into minutes of waiting for a response, Ghost shook his head and turned away, off to search for some kind of medical care that he'd be scolded for needing.

But before he left, he shot Roach's placated body one last glance, subconsciously checking to see that his chest still had the steady rise and fall that indicated he was, in fact, alive, and grinned to himself.

"Stay gold," he said, and disappeared into the lamplight of the barracks.


End file.
